


Part 9: Brian

by oiuytrewq36



Series: We Will Survive [9]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: My first mistake, trying to win an argument during sex when the other party wasn’t also a participant in said sex, was mostly understandable and not anyone’s fault in particular (unless Justin had somehow figured out what I was doing before he called - I wouldn’t put it past the devious little fucker).Unfortunately for me, mistakes are like shots of Cuervo at the White Party or Brie-and-raspberry tarts when I’m stoned: it’s hard to stop at one.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: We Will Survive [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881736
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	Part 9: Brian

If I hadn’t been balls-deep in a hot waiter from Pittsburgh’s swankiest French restaurant when Justin called, I probably wouldn’t have agreed to it. Probably.

As it was, I’d just sealed a two-year contract with a high-profile tech startup and I was feeling great, so I was showing the waiter the time of his life in the alley behind L'Air Nocturne en Été when my phone rang. 

“What?”

“Busy?” Justin said. I looked at the waiter, who seemed to be having too much fun to be bothered by my multitasking. I reached around and started stroking his (very nice) cock to reward him for being a good sport.

“I’m always busy. What’s up?”

“You’re still coming up this weekend, right?”

“Sunshine, I wouldn’t miss Halloween in Greenwich Village even if your perfect ass wasn’t going to be there.” 

He snorted. “Sure you wouldn’t. So, the gallery is holding this big party, a gala-fundraiser type thing, but cool, you know? And Joe says they’ll give me a few spots on the for-sale wall during the event, which means I’ll almost certainly sell a few pieces.”

“That’s great, but what does it have to do with me?”

“I also agreed to help them with setup and food and stuff, because they really can’t afford a full catering staff, and-”

“Is there a point you’re planning on getting to?”

“They’re short on bartenders for the event. Free cocktails are a huge draw for visitors, so they need someone who knows what they’re doing, and since that was one of your jobs in college-”

“Operative word being ‘was’. As in past tense.”

“What, are you getting too old to relive your college days?”

“The only part of my college days I want to relive are the weekends of double-digit orgasms, and I think we’ve been doing just fine on that front.” I snapped my hips a little harder. The waiter gasped.

“Brian, please.”

I sighed. “Aren’t there any qualified bartenders in New York?”

“Not on Halloween, and not on such short notice.”

The waiter started to come, making some _very_ attractive noises. I stroked him faster.

“Do it and I’ll wake you up with a blowjob every morning of the next three weekends we’re together.”

“Ugh. Fine,” I said.

“I love that you can’t say no to me,” Justin said.

“Fuck off,” I said, and hung up to the sound of his laughter.

***

My first mistake, trying to win an argument during sex when the other party wasn’t also a participant in said sex, was mostly understandable and not anyone’s fault in particular (unless Justin had somehow figured out what I was doing before he called - I wouldn’t put it past the devious little fucker).

Unfortunately for me, mistakes are like shots of Cuervo at the White Party or Brie-and-raspberry tarts when I’m stoned: it’s hard to stop at one. 

Mistake number two was complaining to Emmett. I’m going to blame Mikey for that one because it’s easier than blaming myself - I’d been hanging out with Em a lot more since Hunter had entered that horror of middle-class suburban life known as the college application process, and Ben and Michael had become obsessed with shit like SAT practice tests and weighted GPAs and essay prompts, all things that, it turns out, make my dick soft.

So when Emmett came by the loft one morning with Ted and a plate of buckwheat-flour low-sugar blueberry muffins, I only made three or four snarky comments instead of the usual twelve about carbs and pathetic ways to spend a Saturday and Ted’s new haircut (which looked exactly the same as his old haircut) before telling the two of them about how Justin had somehow managed to convince me to agree to spend Halloween night working in food service.

Ted said, “Look at it this way. You’ll have plenty of time to check out all the hot waiters in skimpy costumes.”

He had a point, actually, except for one thing. “There won’t be any waiters. The gallery owners don’t have the budget to hire a caterer or a staff, so they’re coordinating everything themselves.”

Emmett looked genuinely horrified. “That’s a disaster just waiting to happen. Do they know how much always goes wrong on the day of an event? What’ll they do when the chef elopes, or the equipment rental company goes under without warning, or-”

Then I made the third mistake. I’m convinced to this day that Emmett must have dropped some ketamine in the muffin mix, because at that moment I decided it would be a good idea to say (sarcastically, of course), “Well, why don’t _you_ do it then?” in the hopes that he’d stop talking so I could get back to bitching about my boring Halloween.

“That’s-” Ted said.

“A great idea!” Emmett finished. Oops.

I backpedaled as fast as I could. “Didn’t you hear what I said? They can’t pay you.”

“They don’t need to,” Emmett said. “Do you have any idea how much New Yorkers will pay for someone who’s willing to plan their crazy avant-garde parties? I did that vow renewal ceremony for those two leather daddies on Long Island last summer and made more on it than I usually do in a month of events. I’ve been looking to expand out of Pennsylvania forever, and this would be the perfect place to hand out business cards!”

I looked to Ted in the hopes that he’d help me out. Misreading my intentions magnificently, he said, “You know, you could bring some business cards along too! Kinnetik _is_ outgrowing Pittsburgh, and we need more out-of-state clients before we can set up another branch.”

I put my head in my hands. “I am not pitching to clients while I make their martinis.”

“Ooooh!” Emmett said. “I can dress up as Janet Leigh in _Psycho_!"

***

Justin wasn’t even at the apartment when we arrived. “He’s finishing the last painting for the party,” Frances said when she opened the door, dressed in black and chains from head to toe with all-black makeup to boot. “You know how he is when he’s in a creative mood.”

Emmett flounced around the apartment, inspecting Frances’s weird minimalist-feminine-bachelor-pad decor. Once he'd declared the general ambience to be _faaaaabulous_ , Frances took a pitcher of purple stuff out of the fridge.

“Drink?”

I looked at the pitcher. “What is that shit?”

“Amethyst Anchor. It’s a cocktail with black rum and creme de cassis. I also added in a little of my favorite cannabis tincture for fun.”

“I’ll take three,” I said.

“It’s ten-thirty a.m.,” Emmett said.

“It’s Halloween,” Frances said. “This is my Christmas.”

***

I’m going to choose to blame what happened next on the alcohol and THC. 

Emmett started it when he asked Frances about the theme for the party. “From what Justin’s told me, it’s basically your standard spooky-creepy-beware-all-ye-who-enter-here kind of thing,” she said. “You know, black crepe streamers and a fog machine and plates shaped like coffins.”

She turned to me. “What are you going as?”

I looked down at what I was wearing. “James Dean in _Rebel Without a Cause_.”

“That’s not spooky,” Frances said. “Also, that’s how you always dress.”

I glared at her while Emmett cracked up next to me.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you’re dressed differently than usual either,” I said.

She tilted her head. “I’m a backup singer for the Cure. I switched out my blue jewelry for silver, see?”

“You could do that!” Emmett said, looking at me. “Didn’t you want to be the next Robert Smith in high school?”

“You are not putting me in lipstick,” I said.

“What about eyeliner?” Frances said. Before I had the chance to respond, Emmett jumped off the sofa, muttering something about emergency makeup kits and spare mascara, and I knew I was in deep shit.

***

Justin showed up just barely before we had to leave for the gallery. I walked to the door - best to face your fears head-on, right?

I hadn't seen his jaw drop that far since the last time we'd been in the back room at Babylon. “Are you wearing _eyeliner_?”

I figured he could answer that one himself, so I stayed silent.

“Oh my _God_ , you look hot. How long before we have to leave?”

“Twenty minutes, but-”

He grabbed my collar and started dragging me back through the apartment. “We’ll catch up with you guys, okay?”

“Hi, Justin, good to see you too,” Emmett said.

“Hi, Emmett,” Justin said, and slammed the bedroom door.

“You’d better not be late, Taylor!” Frances yelled from the other side of the door. 

“See you there!” Justin shouted back.

He shoved me back onto the bed and started opening my jeans. “Jesus, Brian, you have to warn me before you decide to try something like this. I can’t walk in there with a boner.”

“Don’t you need to put on your costume?” I didn’t really care at that point, but it seemed vaguely important.

“I’ll wear sunglasses and a turtleneck and say I’m the ghost of Andy Warhol. They’ll eat it up,” he said, and swallowed me whole.

I let my head fall back onto the bed and worked a hand into his hair. “Sounds like a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> Your harm-reduction PSA for the day: If you’re drinking a cocktail with THC in it, be sure to go slow if you’ve never had one before because they’re super strong. Cannabis does weird shit to your tolerance (something to do with widening the blood vessels, I believe).


End file.
